


"Love the One You're With"

by Princess of Geeks (Princess)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Episode Related, Future Fic, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-25
Updated: 2010-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul knows he's good for Jack. But Jack belongs to Daniel. Luckily, this is not a problem. Set during and after Season 10</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Love the One You're With"

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Stirred, Not Shaken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/69436) by [Paian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paian/pseuds/Paian). 



  
"The eagle flies with the dove,  
And if you can't be with the one you love,  
Love the one you're with."

\--Stephen Stills

~~~

Standing at one end of an austerely decorated hotel ballroom, Paul watched as General O'Neill, resplendent in his Class A's, turned in Paul's direction to put down his glass of champagne, and then visibly girded himself to once again face IOA Representative Shen.

Sure, O'Neill hated schmoozing. But Shen was, by Paul's calculation, the third most beautiful woman in the room. Shouldn't that have ratcheted back the intensity of his C.O.'s wince? Even just a little? There had to be a reason for the near-distaste he saw on O'Neill's face.

Buffered by the unobtrusive cover of his own flute of champagne, Paul circled out and back through the quietly chatting crowd, in search of a concealed line of sight to O'Neill from the opposite direction. Paul wanted to see him as the IOA rep would see him. He fetched up near a tall potted-plant by a convenient pillar. With a clear view of O'Neill's face, Paul was stunned by the contrast -- the warm, friendly, interested face O'Neill was presenting to her now, and the "Oh, God, get me out of this" near-revulsion that Paul glimpsed moments earlier.

Paul watched for several minutes as the general and the IOA delegate schmoozed in a way that just skirted flirting without being the least bit inappropriate. Eventually a senator came and peeled Shen away. O'Neill continued to feign charm until he turned his back to Paul and drained his champagne, setting the empty on the damask-covered table he'd been backed up against. Paul knew for a fact that O'Neill did not like champagne. At all.

It was the end of a very long day. The full complement of the oversight agency's personnel was in town, as it was DC's turn to host one of the quarterly rotating, full-brass meetings, and that meant extra diplomacy, extra personnel, extra cocktail parties and extra headaches. Paul watched O'Neill carefully the rest of the evening. The interaction with Shen was the latest clue in the puzzle that was O'Neill, a puzzle Paul felt closer than ever to assembling. So Paul watched.

He observed O'Neill relax and genuinely enjoy chatting up Col. Carter, who had been sent out to represent Landry, and who was by Paul's judgment the _most_ beautiful woman in the room. The present SGC commander would do almost anything to avoid coming to Washington, but despite that he was too wise in the ways of politics to squander the opportunity to send Carter. She could chat up the DHS kingmakers on the SGC's behalf, and on her own. Landry was not the leader Hammond had been, not by a long shot, but Paul could find no fault with his paternal concern for the careers of his subordinates.

And tonight, seeing without being seen, Paul confirmed that there was no vibe between O'Neill and Carter of any kind. They were simply old, dear friends, Paul was sure, now. Nothing more. Which was interesting. But it was the absolute absence of the slightest shred of aesthetic interest in Shen which clinched it for Paul.

Before, he had actively wondered about the orientation of his new C.O. With this latest bit of data, he was sure.

~~~

After that, it was just a matter of waiting. The right moment came some weeks later, when O'Neill was pushing himself much harder than usual, the entire department on edge, because Dr. Jackson had gone missing. Daniel had been captured by the new Ori messiah, and there was no way of telling what had become of him.

Paul's opening came one Thursday night, when he and O'Neill had both worked very late. Daniel had been gone for 41 days.

That night, when O'Neill finally dismissed Paul, it was child's play to substitute himself for O'Neill's driver. After as many years at the Pentagon as Paul had put in, first at AF headquarters and then at DHS, he knew everyone -- from the drivers and janitors and enlisted personnel, to the senators and international reps and career military three-stars.

O'Neill emerged from the building, came striding down the sidewalk and pulled open the passenger door of his usual car without even spot-checking Paul's face. Yeah, the general was tired. And stressed. And completely off his game. Paul was reaffirmed in the high and wide gamble he'd set up.

He started the car. In the rearview mirror, O'Neill shed his cover and fumbled for his seatbelt, and not until then did it register on him that Nicholson wasn't behind the wheel.

"What the hell?"

Paul pulled away from the curb. "Will you let me presume? Sir?" He made a turn which sent them in the opposite direction from O'Neill's townhouse, as Paul very well knew.

"Where are you taking me, Davis?"

"For some long overdue R-and-R." His voice was command-firm, matching the general's bark without flinching. Whether O'Neill would allow that was unknown, but Paul went ahead and left off the 'sir' on purpose.

"Take me home."

"Is that an order?" Paul met O'Neill's eyes in the mirror, and kept his voice absolutely firm and emotionless. "Because I think you need to give this a chance before you decline it. You see, I know what you'll do if you go home: Fall asleep on the sofa with the remote in your hand and forget to eat dinner."

"What the fuck." Disgust filled O'Neill's voice. He leaned back, shifted restlessly on the upholstery, and looked out the window.

"Was that an order, Jack?" Paul's heartbeat sped up, but his voice remained perfectly under control. No "sir" was risky enough; the "Jack" was an even clearer signal that Paul was taking them off the grid.

Three heartbeats. Four.

"No," O'Neill barked, pissy and reluctant, still looking out the window.

Paul squelched his desire to sigh in relief and merged onto the highway.

After a few minutes, O'Neill said, "It's a recliner, in front of my TV."

Paul said, "I beg your pardon?"

"A recliner. Not a sofa." O'Neill sounded marginally pacified, but that was enough for Paul to work with. Paul had never set foot in O'Neill's home. Not here, and not in Colorado. He had never been allowed that close. Yet. O'Neill was now meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"Oh, a recliner. Well, then, the crick in your neck isn't be nearly as bad as I thought." Paul allowed his amusement to show in his voice. O'Neill grunted, but he sat back and let Paul's plan unfold.

Paul kept his attention on the traffic, which was sparse given the time of evening. He'd hoped O'Neill trusted him, at least; he'd based this gambit only on that. He thought back to a day of near misses in San Diego Bay, and to another crazy day, at Edwards, when he'd been the one to meet a space shuttle carrying a slightly oxygen-deprived SG-1. He drove, and watched O'Neill carefully in the mirror. O'Neill simply leaned back and looked out the window occasionally, as if to verify the route. Paul couldn't tell if he was ruminating, or just tired.

It wasn't a long drive to Paul's place. He'd bought close to the Pentagon on purpose, when he got the DC assignment in the first place. Now, playing the dutiful butler, he escorted his unwilling guest up the walk and inside his modest house. The lots here were about half the size one could find in Colorado Springs. But there was a tall privacy fence and two mature trees in the back.

O'Neill was frowning now, but still compliant. Paul put his own cover on the hall table. O'Neill kept his under his arm. Paul led the way through the house, and opened the french doors to the roofed deck at the back. That would be, the deck with the hot tub.

He said over his shoulder, "You might want to get out of uniform before you climb in here." O'Neill was hovering in the doorway, still with his hat under his arm. Paul folded the tub cover away and hit the controls for the bubbles and underwater lights. He noted the temperature -- a perfect 102 F.

As he brushed by O'Neill, who was still hesitating in the door, he saw that the general had unbent enough to set his cover on the nearby kitchen bar, and that his jacket was unbuttoned. It was a start.

"It doesn't matter in the least that you don't have a bathing suit. You can climb in there in your shorts." And Paul gestured out toward the deck, a bit impatiently.

He turned his back and went around the bar into the open kitchen, still completely unable to predict which way O'Neill would jump.

He opened a cabinet and punched up the stereo. Plas Johnson's mellow saxophone began to pour like honey out of both sets of speakers -- the ones in the kitchen and the ones outside. He found a crystal tumbler, and poured two fingers of Scotch into it and added one ice cube.

He squared his shoulders and turned around, afraid to hope. The first thing he saw was the uniform, draped over the back of the nearest chair -- jacket, shirt, slacks, socks. He went around the bar and out the door, and there was O'Neill, at rest in the hot tub, exactly as invited, his head tilted back against one of the built-in cushions, his eyes closed. Paul smiled to himself, taming the flood of relief, and walked over and touched his arm. When O'Neill opened his eyes, Paul handed him the Scotch and went back inside without a word and without even a surreptitious peek through the bubbles. He retrieved a spare bathrobe from his bedroom, and went back outside to leave it near the tub. O'Neill's eyes were closed again.

Then Paul took himself into the kitchen, shrugged out of his jacket and his tie and kicked off his shoes. He turned up his shirt cuffs and started dinner. Leftover basil pesto from the freezer; a new box of angel hair. Packaged frozen shrimp, pre-shelled. Sauteing and tossing took about fifteen minutes, after the water boiled. There was a packaged romaine salad in the fridge.

He put dinner on the table and went out to retrieve his guest. The empty Scotch glass was perched on the lip of the tub. The saxophone crooned. It was quite dark.

"Dinner's ready. Here's a robe for you," Paul said, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the bubbles.

O'Neill sat up straight. He had quite a lot of chest hair. It was hardly grey at all.

"This is very inappropriate, Davis," he grumped.

Paul smiled. "Oh, shut up," he said, and picked up the empty tumbler.

O'Neill slowly began to climb out of the hot water. Paul turned away, still not letting himself peek. He was sure, at least, that O'Neill would follow him inside. After all, that's where his clothes were.

The general sat down for dinner in his bathrobe, and when he tasted what Paul had made, he was extremely complimentary, in his brief way. In fact it was O'Neill who got up to serve them both second helpings which polished off everything in the saute pan. He drank several glasses of water, and one glass of the excellent white that Paul had opened. There wasn't much conversation. But Paul was fine with that. He hadn't brought O'Neill here to talk.

Finally, robe swirling around his calves, O'Neill took their plates and silverware into the kitchen. Paul sipped the last of his second glass of wine as he watched O'Neill load the dishwasher, decide there weren't enough items in there to run it, close it without latching it, and wipe his hands on a towel.

His back was still to Paul, as Paul poured himself another half glass of chardonnay and asked, "Do you want to stay? Because you can."

O'Neill leaned on the counter straight-armed, bringing his shoulders up toward his ears. "What is this?" he said to the cupboard fronts. He sounded genuinely confused.

Davis shook his head, even though O'Neill wasn't looking at him. "It's not a thing. It's just that I'm not enough of a workaholic to want to sit by and watch you keep doing this to yourself." O'Neill turned, narrow-eyed, and came to the table. He picked up his glass. Paul continued, looking up at him, "Plus, you know, we need to stick together. Help each other."

"We?"

"Not you and me, necessarily. Although that's a nice idea too. It goes right along with the 'you can stay' thing."

His gaze steely, O'Neill said, "You mean the queers. That's the 'we' that needs to stick together."

Paul looked receptive, but watched him without speaking.

O'Neill's expression didn't change, and he didn't look away. Finally, he said, "Been a long time."

"I figured," Paul said easily.

O'Neill, still standing, sipped his wine. "So it's a pity fuck that's on offer tonight? Save the old guy from himself?"

"You don't get it, do you?"

"Apparently not." For the first time, a shadow of awkwardness crossed O'Neill's face. It seemed to make him uncomfortable that he couldn't quite goad Paul, couldn't embarrass him with bluntness.

Paul sighed and got up and led the way into the living room. "Look. You can get dressed and I can call you a cab. I can wait till you get dressed, and drive you home. You can sleep on my sofa, you can sleep in my bed with me and see how that goes. But if we have sex, it won't be a pity fuck."

Paul was on the sofa now; O'Neill was standing in the middle of the living room carpet, still barefoot. Holding his wine. He ruffled a hand up the back of his head, against the grain of his buzz-short, silvery hair.

Then he sat down in an armchair across from Paul. He said, "How did you know?"

"It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Goddammit." O'Neill put his wine on the coffee table and got up again, turning away. Paul stood, too, and sighed. The man was one landmine after another. More prickly than a porcupine.

Paul said, "Come on to bed, Jack. Washington's made you think too much. You used to be my favorite man of action next to General Hammond." O'Neill sighed. Paul couldn't hear it, but could see his back move. He knew O'Neill had registered the use of his first name. It wasn't earned, yet, but it was deliberate. Lord knew when he would be using it in his head. Maybe never. "Let's finish this wine, at least. Drink a toast to the general."

O'Neill turned to him, then, and a corner of his mouth curved up. "I'll always drink to George Hammond."

They clinked glasses and drank, holding each others' gaze.

And -- surprise -- instead of getting dressed, O'Neill sat down again, his butt on the edge of the cushion, leaning toward Paul, rolling his goblet slowly between his palms. Paul sipped his wine and waited.

"You have a boyfriend?" O'Neill demanded, though there was no heat in his voice. He addressed the question to his wineglass.

Paul chose honesty. He didn't even pause to wonder why. It just seemed the thing to do. With any of a hundred other people, he would have lied, to protect his friends, to avoid exposing himself. But to O'Neill, he would tell the truth. He said: "No one steady. A couple of people I've stuck with since the Academy, but just when our paths happen to cross. One's running a base in Germany. One's still flying transports into combat zones."

O'Neill met his eyes again, but he definitely wasn't angry. Paul didn't think he was interested, exactly, either. Just curious. "How do you know this place isn't surveilled?"

"I don't. I check, sure. But nothing in life is certain, is it?"

O'Neill stared at him for a while. Then he said, "I appreciate what you've done tonight. I needed it more than I realized."

Paul nodded, smiling. "I'll call you a cab," he said. He got up and went down the hall to his bedroom to use the phone. When he got back to the living room, O'Neill was in uniform again, but he hadn't snugged up his tie or buttoned his top shirt button.

Paul crossed his arms and waited. O'Neill stood there a moment, as if unsure what to do, how to say goodnight, and then he paced slowly to the front door and put his hand on the knob. But he didn't turn it, didn't go. He said, "Damndest thing -- I'm wanting, really badly, a Marlboro to smoke while I stand out there waiting for the cab."

"How long has it been since you quit?"

A dark flicker across O'Neill's face, emotions sweeping past too quickly for Paul to recognize or name. "A long time. More than ten years."

Paul rolled the dice again. He closed the distance with two steps and put a hand on O'Neill's shoulder, and leaned in and kissed him, a friendly and chaste press of warm lips. _Exactly the way Carter probably kisses him. But she only kisses him on the cheek,_ he thought, wickedly. He pulled away just as O'Neill started to kiss him back.

"See you tomorrow," Paul said.

"Yeah, you will, won't you?" O'Neill said, and that narrowed, suspicious glance was back.

"No rest for the wicked," Paul said, lightly.

O'Neill pulled the door open and walked out.

Paul took a deep breath, went back into the kitchen on shaky knees, turned up the music, and drank the last of the wine while sitting on the sofa.

When he went out to the deck to put the cover back on the hot tub, there were no wet boxer shorts or tighty-whities left to dry. He laughed, and after he went to bed, he let the image of naked Jack O'Neill in his hot tub amuse and stimulate him until, released, he fell asleep.

~~~

Paul was quietly happy to see that the next day, O'Neill was joking again with everyone he came into contact with. Which he hadn't done since Dr. Jackson had been taken. And O'Neill identified and made plans for three different strategic political countermeasures regarding bureaucratic messes that crossed his desk. When stuff like that had happened the previous couple of weeks, Paul had had to point it out first.

O'Neill was a fiendishly good chess player and well-educated strategist, and his talent for delegation and his self-deprecating methods had served him well for many years, causing his enemies to underestimate him and allowing him to get the drop on many an unsuspecting opponent, domestic and alien. Hammond had seen his potential clearly, and though Paul had been dubious when he first heard of O'Neill's promotion to lead the SGC, he had learned over the years that Hammond generally knew what he was doing.

And in Washington, O'Neill had needed someone like Paul. Luckily, O'Neill had realized this right away. Paul was the Washington insider, by birth and by training. He was a natural at politics, and furthermore he knew where all the USAF bodies were buried. Hammond had seen that they would make a good team; that O'Neill would take Paul's intel and Paul's suggestions, and base good decisions on them. Hammond had told Paul he knew they could think together, and he'd been right. Paul had no idea if Hammond had understood the humor in putting them together because of their one very personal similarity, but he and O'Neill had indeed clicked from the start.

Hammond had brought Paul back from liaison duty with the Jaffa government specifically to watch O'Neill's back in the shark tank that was DC, and Paul had been flattered and honored and had vowed to do his best -- firstly for Hammond, because he'd walk through fire for the man, and secondly because he'd honestly grown into admiring O'Neill. What he'd said that Thursday night at his house had not been an attempt to suck up. At all.

It had only been since Daniel's capture that O'Neill had stumbled. And now, Paul had found a way to fix that. Maybe.

From that Thursday night, O'Neill forwarded Paul every over-the-top and inappropriate lesbian joke he found on the internet. Paul simply smiled and deleted them from his email inbox without replying. It was just one small sign that O'Neill had his sense of humor back along with his A-game.

But Daniel Jackson was still missing.

About two weeks after that evening of Scotch, revelations and pesto, Paul's cell phone rang. He was at home on a Saturday night, watching "You Only Live Twice", and he had to scrabble for his cell and hit the "call back" key. He didn't recognize the originating number, and there was no voicemail message.

When his mystery caller answered, "O'Neill," Paul's heart started to pound.

"General," Paul said.

"It's just 'Jack', tonight. Are you home?"

"Yes, of course, I'm watching a movie."

"Alone?"

"Alone." A tingle started at the base of his spine.

"Receiving gentleman callers?"

"Of course."

O'Neill didn't say goodbye. He just broke the connection.

Paul paused the movie and sat there, turning the remote over and over in his hands. Then he went to the master bath. He just had time to grab a quick shower and get ready, if O'Neill-- if _Jack_ \-- was driving from Bethesda. After, Paul put on a robe. He considered swim trunks but discarded them on the foot of his bed. He brought out the spare robe Jack had used before, and draped it over a living room chair. He belted his own robe snugly and set out tumblers and an ice bucket and the Scotch. Then he started his DVD again and waited.

It was only a couple of scenes before his doorbell rang.

"Good to see you," Paul said neutrally, as he opened the door. He backed up, extending a hand toward the living room. He felt stilted, his words too formal for the hour and how he was dressed. He was extremely flattered and more than a little surprised, and as he paced Jack down the hall into the living area he realized he was going to have a hard time finding his footing, finding the right tone.

Even though he'd been the one to open the door to this, he really didn't know how to play it now. So far, he'd only had a glimpse of Jack. The general, he knew. Not this attractive, slightly rumpled man, who tonight had set aside his command aura the way ordinary people took off a suit-jacket or high heels. Jack was in civvies, and as Paul came up beside him in the living room, Paul could see he had a fresh shave. That made Paul smile, and the thrilling feeling start to built again at the base of his spine.

"Have you had dinner?" Paul said.

"Yeah," Jack said. He'd come to a stop in the living room, and was looking around. Maybe he didn't know what to do with himself either, now that he was here. Or maybe he always threat assessed his surroundings.

"How about a nightcap, then," Paul said, and Jack had already noticed the tray with the Scotch and was moving that way.

"Come on," Paul said, when they had poured their glasses, and he went across the room and out the doors to the deck. He figured Jack would linger, and put on the robe in the living room, and he was right. He shed his own robe and climbed into the water.

The handful of minutes it took Jack to change and emerge onto the deck, glass in hand, seemed long to Paul. He held Jack's gaze, made himself wait to check the guy out, as Jack slowly shrugged out of the robe and climbed into the tub opposite him. Naked.

Jack sighed, long and amazed, and let his head sink back. Paul sipped Scotch and spoke sternly and silently to his pounding heart, which seemed loud even with the bubbles.

"I forgot to put on any music," Paul said.

"Doesn't matter." And Jack lifted his head to drink, and when his eyes met Paul's, the predatory interest Paul saw there was shocking. It was like being regarded by a hunting lion. And Paul knew immediately that what he'd done was nothing less than call down the lightning. He'd better do something to get momentum back, to take charge of this, or Jack would roll over him like a storm. Paul had pushed to get Jack here, and instinct told him he'd better just keep on pushing.

Paul sipped his Scotch and put it down on the lip of the tub, then pushed himself across the brief expanse of bubbles to kneel up on the bench right next to Jack, right in his space. Paul unerringly put one hand on his knee, under the water, and one on his shoulder, and leaned in to kiss him.

Jack, surprisingly, let it happen; he didn't object or push back or do any escalating yet. His mouth was soft and receptive and involved. Paul felt his offensive capabilities were being tested. And Jack kissed beautifully -- meditatively, tenderly, and, increasingly, hungrily.

It went on a long time, longer than Paul had intended. It was a conscious and quite arousing exploration, on both sides. When Paul ended it, a little lightheaded with the heat of the water, he sat down beside Jack, still touching him.

Jack reached for his Scotch and took another sip, then licked his lips. Paul had always been struck by how handsome Jack was, and his mouth was very watchable -- the soft lower lip, which only thinned in concentration or anger, the generous corners. Jack had a stunning smile, too. Paul realized he'd only seen it, the genuine article, a few times.

Jack said, "You shaved."

"Of course," Paul said, chuckling. He found his own glass. They watched each other a little more, and Paul was very conscious of Jack taking his measure and weighing their options.

When Jack put down his glass and reached for Paul, Paul knew he'd been right to be just a little assertive. Now, he had to decide if he was willing to battle this man for dominance. Because it was a fight he might not win. But he realized, as he sank again into Jack's powerful kiss, that he might not feel much like fighting after all. Maybe he wanted Jack to roll over him. Maybe that was why he'd done this in the first place. Jack pulled him in, this time, and held him -- one arm around his shoulders, one behind his head. He petted and caressed Paul's short hair.

A moan escaped from the back of Paul's throat when Jack, still with an arm around his shoulders, brushed the back of his other hand along Paul's already-hard cock. Paul felt Jack smile into the kiss, and then explore his shaft and head and sac -- not stroking, not trying to bring him off, but just getting a sense of things. Exploring. And that idea made Paul smile in his turn. Those hands....

Jack leaned back a little and murmured, "I imagine you'd rather not get come in your hot tub." Paul chuckled, and rested his cheek against Jack's. Before he answered, he found Jack's erection and was gratified when his hips surged up, pressing his dick into Paul's grip.

"Good call," Paul said.

But it was hard to leave the warm water, leave the hypnotic cocoon they'd made for themselves with the kissing and the touching. They sat there a little longer, kissing, trading tongues, still holding on. Then Paul reluctantly leaned back and stood up.

In the bedroom, he paused by the bed and used his robe to take a perfunctory swipe at his damp hair, and then yanked down the duvet. Rolling to the far side, he lay there and watched Jack put a knee on the mattress and come to him without hesitation. He was even smiling a little. He put his hand on Paul's cock again and leaned down and set his teeth gently into Paul's trap muscle. Again, the inadvertent moan, and Paul felt the grin it elicited from Jack.

Jack fit himself against Paul. His height was mostly in his legs. Their upper bodies meshed well -- and all of sudden the urgency was back. Paul had been braced for Jack somehow unleashing on him, had had in the back of his mind a hypothetical conversation about agreeing to bottom. But none of that happened. They stayed side by side, pressed together, no one on top at all. The kissing got intense and sloppy, and their hands moved in sync on each others' dicks. Jack came first, seizing and pulsing in silence, his mouth sealed to Paul's, and then Paul was conscious of Jack pulling his mouth away from the kiss at the last second so he could watch Paul come all over his own stomach.

Afterward, it was exquisite -- Jack's soft, big hand gently cupping him, his other hand playfully tracing circles in the pool of semen. It should have been ticklish, but it wasn't. Then Jack made a noise that was part satisfied sigh and part moan, and he lay down, nudging an insistent knee under Paul's knee, throwing his arm across Paul's chest.

Everything got quiet. Paul could feel cool air on his skin again, feel his heart slowing. He opened his eyes, finally, and stared at his familiar ceiling. God, this felt good. He just lay there, absorbing Jack's presence. The man went through life in the middle of a magnetic force field. Being near him was like looking at the sun through closed eyelids.

After a while, Jack cleared his throat and said, "I'm basically trusting you that this isn't a really stupid mistake."

Paul smiled ruefully. He got up on one elbow and looked at the man in his bed, really looked at him. And Jack looked back, not attempting to hide or evade. The lines that worry had carved at the corners of his mouth and around his eyes were a little eased. He looked tired, but peaceful. Not embarrassed, not regretful, not as if he were about to take any of this back. Which was all Paul had hoped for. Paul realized he was smiling as he studied Jack. Jack basically lay there and let him, and perhaps studied him too. New information, this intimate stuff, to fit into what they already knew of each other. Paul rested a hand on Jack's ribs. So handsome, so fit, so smart, and, yet, Paul felt, so fundamentally lonely. Paul thought of Marty, who'd pulled every string he had to pull to not get promoted away from flying, and of Durant, so happy in Germany. Almost his adopted home now, for all he was an Ohio farm boy.

Paul had a feeling Jack didn't have any friendly memories like that to draw on. He had a feeling it had been, for Jack, as he'd hinted, a very long time indeed. He knew Jack had been married, but that might have been very sad or very fraught, and regardless, even if it had been very good, it had ended badly. And it was a long time ago.

Jack looked so receptive now that Paul leaned in and kissed him again, and Jack's arm came up almost reflexively to hold him close. What Paul meant as reassuring punctuation after sex turned into another tender, meditative exploration. It made Paul's heart melt, just a little.

When Paul pulled away, he said, "You decided a long time ago to trust me. Or you wouldn't be here." He set his head on Jack's chest.

Another silent sigh, felt as an expansion and contraction of Jack's chest, and Jack palmed Paul's nape, perhaps an unconscious gesture. The warm weight of his hand felt wonderful. Paul found he was stroking Jack's shoulder. He'd looked so confused, there in the kitchen, the first night Paul had dragged him over here.

Paul offered, "Maybe you were living so straight for so long, that you've forgotten how it can be, without strings. There aren't any strings with guys. At least, hardly ever. And military guys? No strings. Ever." Jack grunted in answer, like he was thinking. His hand tightened on Paul's neck. And Paul hastened to add though Jack had shown no sign of impatience, "And that's the last speech I'm ever giving about that."

Jack said, "No talking? No negotiating lots of ground rules?"

"I think it's all pretty clear, don't you?"

Paul felt him nod.

So, there was cuddling, but no more sex, and both of them dozed a bit. After a while Paul was pushed awake by Jack's movement. Jack gently disentangled himself and sat up and left the bed and went to the master bath, and when he came out, he put his robe back on, and then went on down the hallway toward the living room, where he'd left his clothes.

Paul rubbed his eyes and got up. He shrugged into his own robe and followed. When Jack was dressed, he hesitated again, frowning, standing there with his hand on the front doorknob, as he had done before. As if he felt some parting words were obligatory. Paul had to show him. He still wasn't quite getting it, Paul felt.

"Jack," Paul said, and again he used the first name deliberately, "I respect you, I like you, also you're hot as hell, and on your side of the equation? This is good for you. You're too worried these days. You need to relax and try to forget about work sometimes."

Jack looked a little nettled. "How can I forget about work when I'm in bed with someone FROM work?"

"Try," Paul said, laughing, glad he hadn't gone too far with what he'd said.

"Right," Jack said, sounding dubious. And then he was gone.

~~~

A week later, SG-1 captured Daniel and brought him back on the _Odyssey. _

Jack was gone for a while, overseeing the interrogation of Daniel-as-Prior, and then the launching of the Ori weapon, in the very unorthodox plan that Daniel and SG-1 cooked up. Reading his terse summaries in the secured emails, Paul wondered if he'd ever see him after-hours again, now. Because Daniel was back, alive and, soon enough, rehumanized, and after that happened, all had to be right in O'Neill's world again, Paul judged. Even the tone of the routine emails he sent Paul from Colorado changed immediately once it was verified that Daniel was alive.

But Jack must have worked the thing with Paul out to his own satisfaction, because when the plan was executed, the crisis was over, and Daniel was back on regular missions with his team, Jack came back for more.

A week or so after he was back in Washington, Jack called Paul on his cell phone on Saturday night and asked if he could drop by. He arrived with some mediocre takeout Chinese, which they ate on the sofa, spreading out the containers on the coffee table, companionably discussing old spy movies, and then, delighting Paul, one thing led to another again. Kissing on the sofa soon moved down the hall. In the dark bedroom, Paul was contentedly exploring his new lover with both his hands and his mouth, when Jack surprised the shit out of him. Jack freed his mouth from Paul's and said, gruffly, against Paul's neck, "Do me, tonight. Be the top, I mean."

Paul froze, and instantly regretted it, because Jack tensed in response, which was bad, in a way, but in that moment Paul was deeply, dangerously happy that he could read Jack's responses. He was also surprised. It was not the request he had expected from Jack. He said, although as the words left his mouth he knew it was the wrong tactic, "Are you sure?"

"Goddammit," Jack growled, gathering up Paul's wrists and rolling them, getting on top himself, regardless of what he'd just asked for. After quite effectively immobilizing Paul, he let go and leaned on his elbows and looked away. Paul could see his profile sharply outlined in the light from the master bath. There was more white than silver in his hair now, since Daniel's time with the Orici.

Paul amended, "Yes, of course you're sure. You asked, didn't you?"

"Forget it."

Paul paid no attention to Jack's huffy drama of faux rejection. Instead, using his rusty but well-remembered judo technique, he braced against Jack's shoulders, and, moving slowly so as to telegraph what was he was doing, he hooked his foot around Jack's shin and flipped them back over.

Jack let him, but he lay there under Paul and frowned. So Paul kissed him until the frown went away. Then he put his mouth against Jack's ear and said, "Roll over. Onto your stomach."

Jack's hands tightened on his shoulders, and his flagging erection jumped against Paul's hip. Paul raised himself away from Jack's body to give him room, and Jack heaved himself over, gathering a pillow under his chin.

Paul started kissing at his nape, and worked his way slowly down. He was still astonished. Objectively he knew better than to have any preconceptions about what someone like Jack would want in bed, but he'd concluded, and Jack had all but verified, that it had been a long time since Jack had had sex with a man. Thus, Paul had been content to explore slowly, to see how his friendly attraction to his C.O. would develop over time. Anal sex wasn't something that had to be on the menu for Paul -- not that he was against the idea, but it honestly had surprised him that Jack wanted it so soon. But. Jack had arrived freshly shaved and showered , and Paul knew him well enough by now to know that if Jack had asked to bottom, he would have planned this. Thoroughly.

Massaging, touching, telegraphing every move, Paul mapped Jack's ribs, his ticklish hip area, and finally pushed his thighs apart, prompting him to groan into his pillows. Paul ran his fingertips, feather light, down the cleft, and Jack groaned again and rocked his ass up. Jack's hiked-out knee slid even further, and he reached down and changed the angle of his erection against the mattress.

Paul, skimming his fingers from tailbone to balls, setting up a languid rhythm, leaned up a little and murmured, "I know your style. You planned for this. You're clean for me, aren't you? You got ready at home for what you're asking for tonight."

"You're killing me, Davis," Jack groaned.

Paul chuckled and stroked a little more firmly. So, talking in bed. Check. Jack's asshole was throbbing already. Paul left his fingers curled around Jack's balls and bent to kiss along the path his fingers had traveled, and when he arrived at Jack's hole and kissed there, pressing a little with his tongue, Jack groaned even louder, and cursed.

Paul raised his head, shifting as he did, because Jack's reactions were getting him as hard as the proverbial rock, and said silkily, "You didn't answer me."

"Yes, okay? Yes, I got ready. Yes, I'm clean. For you. Oh, Christ."

Because Paul put his mouth back down, licking and sucking and pushing his tongue in, all the while gently squeezing Jack's balls, rolling them in his palm.

Jack buried his face in the pillow and went very still, his body as tight as a drawn bow, his hips tilted, his legs wide open, his ass pushed up. Paul shifted, getting to his knees, holding Jack's hip with his free hand, his mouth still busy with Jack's ass. Jack smelled and tasted so good -- almost tart, and the yielding muscle, the sudden heat just inside, felt sublime.

Paul let himself get lost in it, tonguing Jack for a long time, nuzzling into the dampness when his tongue needed a break, continuing to press in, to kiss and to suck. Finally he rested a cheek on Jack's buttock and explored Jack's erection. He'd made a wet spot on the sheets, and he was rock-hard, still holding himself up with that zinging tension, pushed toward Paul. Yeah, he was ready.

"Mm," Paul said, slowly sitting up. "Don't go anywhere."

Jack just groaned and scrubbed his face in the pillow.

Paul found the bottle and the condoms, and he lingered for a little after he was ready, fucking Jack gently with two very slick fingers, just breathing, letting himself notice how amazed he was to be here. The general was a very attractive man -- tall and slim and fit, hardly any softness at his middle despite over two years of being in desk jobs. He was quite a prize, spread out and vulnerable for Paul like this, and Paul allowed himself to revel. Paul gave his firm cheek a last caress with his free hand and pulled his fingers out, enjoying every millimeter of the sensation. He leaned over Jack's back and lined up, then pressed a kiss to his shoulder as he eased in.

He had no idea if Jack had done this before, or how long it had been if it wasn't his first time, or if he was experimenting, or proving something, or simply, finally, getting a forbidden desire. But he didn't have to talk about it to enjoy it. And he knew better than to ask any more questions.

Jack was meeting him. He was letting Paul sink in by increments, letting Paul mostly control things, but he was gently pushing, from his elbows. He was panting hard, almost gasping.

When Paul was almost all the way in, in far enough to see that Jack wasn't going to have any issues with accommodating this, that he knew exactly how to manage the penetration, Paul gasped, "Pillow -- should have used the pillow in the first place, get a pillow," and, shifting just a bit awkwardly from side to side, they got a pillow under Jack's hips.

Then Paul could blanket him, lie right down on top of him, and use just his hips to push and rock, and Jack turned his head, inviting Paul to nuzzle his ear and his neck.

So damn good, so hypnotic.

Lying down and relaxing a little made Paul's climax rush toward him. He had to talk himself down from the edge, and he rested some of his weight on his fists, and chanted silently to himself about making it last. But it was so good, so hot. He rocked into Jack's ass, and made it last as long as he could. Not as long as he wanted, but it was so hot, so sweet. As he came, he was aware of a faint surge of triumph. General Jack O'Neill. And Paul had him.

As the rush ebbed, as he lay on Jack's back, panting, he felt Jack groping for his hand. Surprised, he linked their fingers, and clutched hard. When he'd caught his breath, he kissed Jack's neck and pulled their joined hands in together, turning them both to the side as he did, and, still with Jack's fingers laced in his, moved to stroke him. Lots of wet slippery pre-come, and Paul closed his eyes and felt Jack's fingers curve willingly around his own, and they stroked his dick together until Jack was groaning deep in his chest and curling around his own orgasm.

Paul let go then, leaving Jack to cradle his own dick as he came down, and petted his shoulder, and when the impulse returned to nuzzle and kiss his shoulders and neck, he didn't hold back.

^^^^

The next time they were together, once again at Paul's house, late at night on a Saturday, Jack wanted sixty-nine. This was a plan Paul could enthusiastically and eagerly fall in with. It was one of Paul's favorite things to do, even with the inconvenience of rubbers.

Afterward, lying languidly, with Jack pressed full-length against his back, Paul said, "You and Daniel are very old and very good friends."

"So?" Jack said.

"So tell me about him."

"No," Jack said.

"Okay," Paul said. With this man, some things were off limits and probably always would be.

That time, without, perhaps, planning to -- Paul was never sure later -- Jack stayed the night.

Paul woke early, in gray darkness, to find Jack still pressed against his back. But Paul could smell coffee. He realized Jack must have gotten up and made it. Paul found it rather amazing that Jack had gotten out of bed, started the coffee, and crawled back into bed without waking Paul. He was Special Ops-trained, true, but Paul would ordinarily wake up for that.

"Well, Sleeping Beauty," Jack said, quietly and a little fondly, and Paul reached back and slapped his ass, gently, through the covers. Then he sighed and snuggled contentedly against Jack and contemplated the beautiful scent of hazelnut coffee. Soon he'd get up and get some. But not quite yet.

Jack said, out of nowhere, "Daniel and I aren't ... intimate. Aren't lovers. Weren't ever. No matter what kind of lurid gossip you heard."

Paul was instantly, fully, awake. "Mm?" he said, concealing his intense interest. Or trying to.

After a pause, Jack said: "I used to dream about him, though, after he came to me that time when that snake had captured me. A few years back. I kept dreaming about him. After the team enlisted Lord Yu and busted me out."

Paul pressed Jack's hand against his own chest. "Wait. Daniel came to you while he was ascended?"

"I guess you didn't know that, huh."

"No, I didn't. It wasn't in the reports."

"Well, no. I guess not.... I used to dream about him, after Carter and T. and Quinn got me back to Earth. I always wondered, you know, when I was dreaming and when it was some kind of visitation from the Astral Plane of the Squids."

Paul lay still. He had a perhaps not irrational notion that if he disturbed Jack's train of thought at all, he'd clam up. He squeezed his hand, gently. Encouragingly.

Jack went on, "You spent some time with him, in Moscow, yourself."

"Yes, but nothing happened between us, if you're wondering. You can ask, you know. I would tell you."

Jack was quiet, absorbing that. Paul had a sudden insight that Jack probably had concluded years ago that Paul was gay, and that Jack -- amazing thought -- might possibly have been jealous, might have been wondering, about him and Daniel, all this time. He considered Daniel a friend, though lord knew they couldn't spend much time together, what with, you know, saving the galaxy and all.

Jack finally said, "The second time he got killed and came back? That was just too much."

Paul nodded. He hadn't been there, but again: He'd read the reports. He always read the reports. But this wasn't neutral facts. This was Jack. Jack was talking to him. Jack was... confiding in him. Paul felt giddy. Maybe Jack had just told him, obliquely, why he'd come to Washington. "He keeps putting in for Atlantis," Paul ventured. "Or did, until this latest thing."

"Yeah." Jack sighed. "Shit, you know, maybe I should give in and let him go. I don't see how he could get into any more trouble there than here, now that we have this Ori thing going on. Wraith there, Ori here; take your pick."

Paul waited, but Jack didn't say any more. "Do you think he's straight?" Paul asked. It was an effort of will not to tense up, as he was fully expecting Jack to bark at him that it was none of his damn business.

But Jack didn't bark. He answered, thoughtfully, "God's truth: I don't know. I've never heard any gossip about him. But that doesn't mean much."

"People kid around about the two of you all the time."

"I know. But that's okay. They used to kid around about me and Carter and even me and T., too...." Jack chuckled at the memories. Then he said, and his voice changed, "You know, this is pretty bad form, me talking to you about Daniel."

Paul just laughed. Laughed, even though there was a sudden pang in his heart. Did Jack know what he'd just given away? He'd confirmed everything Paul had ever suspected about Jack's feelings, confirmed what had made Paul ask him about Daniel in the first place. "You're here, Jack. With me. Right now, tonight. And I'm here with you."

Jack squeezed him tightly around the middle. It made Paul warm all over. Jack said, "What have you got for breakfast around here besides coffee?"

But he didn't stay for breakfast. He drank a cup of coffee, glanced at the headlines of the _Post_ (Paul was old-fashioned and still had it delivered in paper form to his doorstep), and got dressed and left. He kissed Paul goodbye, though. He'd never done that before.

~~~

Jack's new level of casual comfort in their relationship, or whatever the hell it was, backfired on them both a little. Because one night, he turned up without calling first, and Paul had company. One of the men he'd described to Jack, that first night, had dropped in -- Paul's old friend from the Academy, the one who'd managed to gracefully turn down a promotion that would have put him behind a desk, in order to keep flying.

Paul ushered Jack into the living room, brushing off his protests that if Paul had company he wouldn't horn in.

"Jack O'Neill, Major Martin Alexander," Paul said. Marty had come to attention, but Jack chose not to take any notice of that. Paul had left off Jack's rank, but that didn't matter. Everyone in the entire Air Force knew who he was.

"Call me 'Jack,' " he said, and shook Marty's hand instead of saying "at ease."

And Paul was sure Jack would flee, then, but instead Jack apparently believed Paul's repeated reassurances that he wasn't intruding and that he should join them for dinner. Because he did. Paul was delighted.

Marty and Paul cooked, and they all drank red wine, and Marty and Jack argued about hockey, something they discovered they had in common that Paul had exactly zero interest in. In the breaks in the conversation, Paul felt Jack was watching him and Marty with a puzzled intensity, and with a deep, almost voyeuristic, curiosity. They acted the way they always did -- they were affectionate but not raunchy. They had known each other for nearly twenty years, and been on-again, off-again lovers all that time, and it showed -- that level of familiarity. Jack left right after dinner, looking a little wistful, but, amazing development, he let Paul hug him, and also kiss him goodnight, at the door, even though someone was there. Marty didn't come over to the door to say his polite goodbye. But he saw.

"So that's your tame general," Marty said thoughtfully, leaning his hips against the bar, drinking the last glass of wine.

"That's him," Paul said, thinking, _Oh, if you only knew the whole truth. He's not my general at all. He belongs to Daniel Jackson. And he may not even be aware of that._

Marty flew on to Alaska the next day. When he left, he hugged Paul tightly enough to make his ribs crack.

~~~

The indisputable fact that Jack O'Neill belonged to Daniel Jackson, whether either of them realized it or not, was at the forefront of Paul's mind the next time he visited SGC for senior staff evaluations.

Because the last night he was there, Daniel tracked him down in his borrowed office and dragged him out to dinner at some new trendy chic place in Manitou Springs.

They spent a cheerful and expansive couple of hours reminiscing. Daniel had done his recon -- they sat on the balcony with a clear view of all approaches, the summer air cool and pleasant around them, and their table was next to a fountain that made any Earth-tech surveillance pretty futile.

Over the nearly-empty dessert dishes, Daniel looked at him over his glasses and said, "I've never forgotten that trip to Moscow we took."

"Oh my god. That was insane," Paul said. He'd had a couple of glasses of wine, and he was feeling very loose and very happy. He always enjoyed Daniel's company, and it had been way too long since they'd gotten to spend any non-stressful time together.

"Yeah. We got the DHD--"

"YOU got the DHD--"

"We got the DHD and immediately blew it the fuck up!"

"They certainly drove a hard bargain after that with getting a team; getting a foothold here, pardon the pun."

Daniel winced.

"It worked out for the best though," Paul hastily added.

Daniel nodded. He was turning and turning the stem of his wineglass. He seemed nervous, Paul realized all of a sudden, not just because Paul had reminded him of that awful foothold situation of a few years back. Daniel got quiet, and Paul was trying to figure out why -- if he was mourning Chekov, or what exactly.

Then Daniel looked up, and leaned in, and blurted, his voice barely above a whisper, "Paul, can I take you home tonight? Or take you to a hotel?"

Paul's eyebrows tried to make contact with his hairline. "You're serious."

Daniel looked worried, but he didn't lean back. "Is this out of line? Did I read you wrong? If I did...."

Thoughts tumbled over themselves. What would Jack think? Should he say no, for Jack's sake? Should he say yes ... for Jack's sake. Paul tried to pull himself together. What did he want, himself? What did he want to do? "No, no, you're fine. I just... I don't know what to say. It's the last thing I expected."

Daniel looked sheepish and relieved at the same time. "I don't really do this much."

"Really?"

"No. I just. Well. Anyway. I figured it was worth a shot."

"And you were right. But... what do you want from me, Daniel? What's this about?"

"Does that matter?"

No. Well, yes, but. No. Not really. It's just that we've known each other for years, and I have to wonder...."

"Everything is hard, isn't it. Everything has to be hard. Nothing is easy. Ever," Daniel spit out, and he leaned back and looked away, out over the valley, and his voice was so bitter.

Paul hissed, "What do you mean? You saw me as someone easy? Just an easy lay?"

Daniel drew breath. An aggrieved, gathering-his-patience breath. "No, Paul. I just thought I could ask, and you could say 'yes' or 'no.' A simple question."

"Simple is not easy," Paul reminded him.

"No," Daniel acknowledged, and his smile was grim, but at least he smiled. "No, it's not."

_I want to do this. God help me, I want it. Damn the consequences,_ Paul thought, in a blind rush, watching his old friend's mouth, his eyebrows, those blue, blue eyes. "Yes," he said.

Daniel frowned and looked at him intently, as if to see what question he was answering. Paul let his face show Daniel his decision. And his want.

Daniel inhaled. His face changed too. Mostly he was relieved. But there was lust there, too, and a kind of yearning.

"I think a hotel would be best, don't you?" Paul said, trying to keep his voice even in the face of the desire he saw mirrored in Daniel's eyes.

^^^^

Daniel was a top. Despite his abrupt and awkward request, and his total lack of flirting, he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how to accomplish what he wanted.

In their shabby hotel room, on a touristy strip in sight of the entrance to Pike's Peak, Daniel reduced Paul to a quivering, begging puddle before finally taking hold of Paul's hips and pulling him onto his cock. He didn't so much push in as pull Paul to him.

It was gorgeous. It was consuming. It was intense. Like Daniel himself.

Afterward, they lay in their borrowed bed and just breathed. Face to face again, Daniel wanted to cuddle, and press his cheek to Paul's shoulder, and Paul locked his arms around Daniel's torso and let him. All that warm skin. Paul shivered. Warm, new skin. Better not to think about that. It was just Daniel -- just the same old Daniel.

To distract himself, he said, "Um. Obviously I want this, obviously you figured out I'm gay and that I'd be receptive, but I still just have to ask... Why? Why now?"

And Daniel drew a long ragged breath. And he flipped onto his back, and took Paul's hand, and talked to the ceiling. He started with Vala Mal Doran, about how she had teased and flirted with him incessantly and how that unwanted attention had had the effect of making him first, annoyed, then, aware of how he didn't want her, but he didn't really want anyone around him either, and how ... atypical that was. Then that nudged him to take notice of, instead of taking as read, Mitchell and Carter's friendship (except he called them Cameron and Sam), and realize how he envied them that, and how Teal'c had found Ishta, and how he, Daniel, had realized he didn't want Vala but that he....

He sighed again, and didn't finish the sentence, and Paul felt a little drunk on all those words, that flood of words. And also he noted who Daniel had most emphatically not talked about.

Daniel went on, "I realized how isolated I really am, you know? And I have to change that. I can't-- I tend to forget that no man is an island."

Paul frowned. "And you noticed I'm available."

Daniel rolled to him, put a hand on his chest. "No, no. Paul, no. I _like_ you. You know that. I'm saying this all wrong." He huffed out a big expansive sigh and rolled to his back again, put his hand over his eyes. "Damn. I used to actually be good with people. Once upon a time."

Paul slid down and kissed him, made Daniel look at him. "Stop it. Daniel. It's all right." Another kiss, and the frown was gone from between his eyes. "I like you too, you know. Always have."

Daniel relaxed then, and nodded. And what do you know. He did have a lot of pent-up demand. Paul was sore for a week. He was kind of glad, after he got home, that so far the general hadn't asked him to bottom. Not once. Because when he got back to Washington? It was a couple of days before he could sit down without wincing.

~~~

As the weather had warmed on the East Coast, Paul and Jack had taken up tennis. It was an effective, accepted, and non-suspicious way to meet up outside the Pentagon, without putting "questionable fraternization" on anyone's radar.

Paul had managed to keep his incredible, rather amusing secret until their tennis date (which was, of course, intended to be tennis first, sex later). After their first game, when they met at the net to drink Gatorade and rehash their points, Paul said, with a quirky kind of smile, "You'll never guess who made a pass at me when I was in Colorado last week for the evals."

Jack let his drink bottle drop to his side, and then it slipped from his fingers and bounced on the concrete. His eyes got wide.

Paul took another swig of Gatorade and wiped his forehead with his wristband. "If you were wondering if he was bi or gay, well, wonder no more."

Jack swallowed. "I guess it would be very bad form to ask you what it was like."

Paul chuckled. "You're assuming I caught the pass?"

Jack just looked at him -- that eyebrow raise he'd caught from Teal'c that said, "what am I, stupid?"

Paul laughed and looked at the horizon. "Yes, it would be bad form. Yes, it would. Quite."

Paul won the next two games. Handily.

~~~

Jack didn't make him talk about it. But that night, even though they enjoyed their ritual movie and takeout (they were working their way through all the James Bond movies, in order, and arguing about the relative strengths and appropriateness of the various actors in the lead), and though the sex was prolonged, enjoyable and friendly as always, Paul could tell Jack was preoccupied.

The next Monday, as he put a bunch of files on Paul's desk, Jack said, "Isn't Major Alexander due back in town this weekend?"

"I believe so, sir."

And Jack cocked his head at Paul and went back into his office.

Paul knew exactly what that meant. He was now fluent in Jack-speak. It was a reminder that Jack never meant or desired to interfere in Paul's other relationships, or begrudged them in the slightest. Which Paul already knew for a fact. But it was also a signal that Jack intended to act on his new knowledge of Daniel. Sauce for the gander, and all that.

Paul realized he'd give a lot to be a fly on the wall when it finally happened.

Jack soon found some pretext to go to Colorado, and on his fourth day there, he confirmed, with the front office secretary and not with Paul, that he was going to grab a few days of leave after he left SGC, which coincidentally ran into a long holiday weekend, and so the general headed on up to Minnesota before coming back to the capital.

Paul wondered if he went alone to Minnesota. But he learned, in an odd way, that Jack had indeed gone to the cabin by himself.

Because that night, his cell rang as he was pushing his cart through the grocery store, and Daniel said in his ear, his voice full of suppressed laughter, "I understand we have a mutual friend."

Paul laughed until his ribs ached; right there in Costco.

***

Weeks went by. Nothing changed. Except after his leave, Jack was happier and calmer than Paul had ever seen him. And he clammed up about Daniel entirely. Daniel, for his part, found excuses to email Paul more frequently, sometimes sending him links to articles about travel, or movies, or food -- things totally unrelated to work. Paul wondered if, or when, they'd ever get together again. But he knew how Daniel was -- every time they'd been together for work, over the years, Daniel always picked up right where they left off, as if no time had passed at all. Paul wasn't sure if that was just Daniel's personality, if he treated all his friends like that, or if it was a way to cling to some kind of continuity, some kind of stability in his few friendships, in an extremely chaotic existence.

Late one Friday night, with absolutely no advance warning at all, the two of them appeared on Paul's doorstep, bearing a bottle of very good California cabernet and a pound of Kona coffee.

Jack said, "I told Daniel you had a bathing-suit-optional hot tub, and he wouldn't stop nagging me until I brought him over to see it."

Paul tried to quit doing his fish impression, and ushered them in.

"I told you we should have called first," Daniel hissed, and Jack glared at him. Daniel, returning a "how could you be so rude" glare to Jack, stepped to Paul and kissed him "hello".

Jack just smirked, brushed by them, stealing the wine back from Paul while his attention was all on Daniel, and went to the kitchen.

A slightly stunned Paul, with Daniel's help, and Jack's kibbitzing, put the coffee on, and opened the wine.

They took goblets out on the deck and contemplated the hot tub.

Jack cleared his throat. "Would you like to try it out?"

Daniel, though Jack had addressed his question to the porch roof, shot back, "Would you?"

"I asked first," said Jack, with a sidelong glance at Paul that so very clearly invited him to share the joke. Oh, Daniel -- always arguing.

"You asked because you want to," Daniel said primly.

"It would be hot," Jack said, and he looked right into Paul's eyes when he said it.

"Yes," Paul said, and licked his lips. "It would."

"Ah," Jack said. "Almost forgot." And he produced a nondescript, dull gray sphere from his pocket, put it on a convenient table, and tapped it twice. A vibration touched Paul's skin and then ebbed, like a bass guitar, but well below the level of hearing.

"Little present, reverse-engineered out of the _Odyssey_ databases," Jack said.

"Sam figured it out. Asgard jamming technology," Daniel translated.

"Perfect," Paul said. Leading by example, his heart pounding, he set his wine on the lip of the tub and undressed, right there on the deck, and climbed into the water. This time, he frankly watched both his guests as they did the same. Neither seemed self-conscious, he was happy to note, and they were both obviously getting more excited by the second.

Paul smiled to himself as Jack and Daniel settled themselves on either side of him. Who would ever have thought, in a million years.... He sipped the very excellent wine, and leaned his head back on the padding. Was he waiting, or simply caught in a state of disbelief? This was too good to be true. He pushed the thought away.

The bubbles kicked up, and he opened his eyes to see Jack playing with the controls.

"So," Paul said, flailing around for a topic. He was naked, in his hot tub, with Jack. And Daniel. Jesus. "No more getting beamed up without warning."

"Yeah," Jack said, leaning back and reaching for his wine. "I'll kinda miss that, actually. It kept life interesting."

Daniel put his arm around Paul, and lifted his glass. "To Thor," he said, quietly. And they all drank.

Jack scooted closer as well, pressing his thigh against Paul's, and then Paul felt him stretch a long leg out so he could touch Daniel's foot with his own.

"This is going to sound weird," Jack said, "but I owe you an enormous thank you, Davis."

"For ... providing a way to get you two together," Paul said, although he wondered if Jack didn't have a lot more than that in mind. Jack's reaction to Paul's first overture was still fresh in his memory. He turned to Jack and smiled. Jack was regarding him with a calm peacefulness that was like no expression Paul had ever seen on his face. Paul reached out and cupped his hand around Jack's nape and brought his mouth in. He was starting to sweat, and he could feel his erection, teased and tickled by the bubbles. Jack's mouth was hot and soft and welcoming.

"Yeah," Jack said, when the second kiss broke, and Daniel's arm tightened around Paul. "And, you know, for all the bureaucratic black magic you do so well on a regular basis. That too."

"Why are you flattering me, General?" Paul said, nuzzling in against Jack. Daniel was petting him now -- stroking his shoulder, pressing closer. The force of their combined attention was quite overwhelming. "You already know it's unnecessary. You know I'll put out regardless."

That made Daniel laugh, and press a kiss to Paul's nape. Paul shivered, despite the hot water, and Jack reached past him to put his hand on Daniel's head as he caught Paul's mouth in a searing kiss.

By the time the kiss ended, Daniel had both hands around Paul and was using them to best advantage, exploring and stroking and petting all over the front of him. Paul's face was hot. He was hard as a rock under Daniel's curious hands.

Jack leaned back and choked out, "Okay, we gotta move this party. Because the first rule is, 'No jizz in the hot tub.' "

The other two burst into laughter.

"No, seriously," Jack said.

"Jack!" Daniel said, and Paul had never heard him sound so flirtatious and so aroused. "That's the second rule, at best. You know the first rule is, 'Don't get caught.' " Jack was rolling his eyes, and he spoke The Rule at the same time as Daniel.

Paul laughed and shifted free of their arms and heaved to his feet, bracing one-handed against the side. It was a miracle that no wine had spilled and that no crystal had shattered on the decking.

"Follow me, gentlemen," he said, and climbed out. He was dizzy with lust. He tossed each of them a towel and headed back into the house and down the hall to his bedroom.

"Hmm," Daniel said, scrubbing his hair as he walked. "I'm pretty much the top of this bunch, I'm thinking."

Paul said, dryly, "Who knew," and he looked back, stealing a glance at Jack, who had his towel draped around his neck, locker-room fashion. He met Paul's eyes, and Paul saw the faintest shred of embarrassment flash across his face and fade immediately. It made Paul hesitate, allowing Daniel to catch him up, and he kissed Jack and kept a hand on his arm.

In the bedroom, Daniel threw his towel on the floor and dove onto the bed. Paul had only rarely seen him this exuberant and silly over something that didn't involve ancient ruins.

He was still laying down the law, though. "And another data point to consider: Paul's favorite act is sixty-nine. Also: Jack's usually ready for anything but he definitely has some kind of strong feeling that it's not really sex unless someone gets fucked."

Jack had settled himself on one side of Daniel, while Paul brought out rubbers and lube. He still couldn't quite believe this was happening.

"Daniel," Jack said chidingly, his hand on Daniel's erection, his lips just under Daniel's ear, "you know I never said that.... He exaggerates. Have you noticed that tendency?"

"Yes, I imagine I have," Paul murmured, quite distracted by the view. They were beautiful together -- obviously comfortable, and obviously very capable of exciting each other to the hilt. They were both fully erect, the walk down the hall and the discussion of data points doing nothing to put a damper on the atmosphere. Jack's nuzzling and the attentions of his hand caused Daniel to -- amazing, astonishing -- stop talking.

"You left out kissing," Jack was saying, between nuzzles. Daniel reached out an arm for Paul. "It's not really sex unless there's kissing."

"Hm," Paul said, and he reached for Jack and bent to kiss Daniel's mouth. Daniel still wasn't talking. He kissed Paul back enthusiastically, and moaned at what Jack was doing.

Jack leaned up, and switched hands on Daniel in order to put a warm hand on the small of Paul's back. "That's some high-quality lip action there, guys. I may never watch porn on TV again," he observed.

"Oh," Daniel said, smiling, breathless, his lips still against Paul's mouth, "we're not quite to the porn stage yet. Just you wait."

The joking was over then. It became clear to Paul what tight control Jack had had on himself, because getting to watch the two of them together was pushing him to his own heights of lust. Paul was familiar with the signs. His eyes were intent and dark, and when Paul stole a glance he could see Jack stroking himself. He really liked watching them together. Paul smiled, thinking of what Daniel had liked, had wanted, when they were together before. He slid, kiss by careful kiss, down Daniel's body, and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sight of his straining erection, the tight balls, the gentle curve of his cock. Daniel groaned at the touch of his fingers. Something pressed against his shoulder, and he took the rubber from Jack and rolled it quickly onto Daniel, his mouth following immediately.

"Oh, god," Daniel said. "God, Paul, and knowing... Jack.... I can feel you watching. I can feel your eyes."

"Baby," Jack murmured, and scooted closer. They were all touching, warm hands on warmer skin, and Paul was drunk already on the feel of Daniel's shaft in his mouth.

"Christ," Jack said, and he leaned up and kissed Daniel, sloppily, quickly. Daniel's dick got, impossibly, even harder in Paul's mouth when Jack's lips touched his. Jack tore himself away and gathered up the bottle.

He moved behind Paul, and stroked his buttock. Paul shifted, raising himself higher on his knees.

"Can I..." Jack said, and Paul didn't have to answer in words. He spread his knees instead. Daniel put a hand to Paul's head. "God, slow down," he groaned. Paul did, but kept Daniel his mouth, trying not to let his eyes fall shut at the sensations Jack was creating. Watching Daniel watch Jack prepare to fuck him was beautiful. Daniel licked his lips and adjusted the pillow he was leaning on. Paul wondered if Daniel knew that Jack had never offered to do this to Paul before.

As Jack breached him, reaching around to gently cup his dick as he did, Paul groaned, his mouth going slack, his knees slipping. Daniel swore again, and Paul felt Daniel's fingers on his lips, exploring his own dick in Paul's mouth.

Jack felt wonderful -- entering him slowly, carefully.

"Oh, my god," Daniel said again, and he petted Paul's face and pulled away, slowly and perhaps reluctantly.

Paul hated to lose the fullness of Danie's dick in his mouth, but he was fast becoming unable to pay attention to anything but the slick pressure of Jack's cock in his ass, the singing delicious stretch in his thigh muscles, the soft sound of skin slapping skin. He put his face in the mattress and moaned.

"Ah, fuck, Daniel," Jack said, and Paul felt his grip tighten on Paul's hip. Hands, on his back, on his flanks, and a subtle shift in the weight of how Jack was rocking in his ass, pushing him harder into the mattress. He realized where Daniel had gone when he'd pulled out of Paul's mouth -- he'd moved back to fuck Jack, to put him in the middle.

Jack was getting harder, balancing and holding on to Paul, but Daniel fucking him demolished his usual staying power. He came, crying out, digging his nails into Paul's hip, collapsing against Paul's back, catching part of his weight on one fist. Paul was chanting his encouragement, and after a few moments, he felt the blur of Jack's grip on his dick, pulling his climax from him as, with a final heavy jolt, Daniel finished, too, calling Jack's name.

They fumbled through separating, not bothering to clean up yet, tangling mostly sideways on the bed. Daniel reached for Paul, one handed, and Paul, ending up with his head on Jack's shoulder, reached too, finding Daniel's knee. It took a while for their breaths to allow for speech, after that.

"I'm very-- glad-- you two-- found your way here," Paul said, still panting.

"Mmm," Daniel said, sounding agreeable, even contented.

Jack said nothing, but brought his hand up to squeeze Paul's shoulder, and lingered to relax his palm against Paul's pec, petting and squeezing. It sent a zing from Paul's nipple down through his groin, spent as he was.

It was Daniel who stirred, finally, to collect the condoms and take care of a little wiping up. Paul could see quite a pile of damp towels collecting on the floor of the master bath. It made him smile. They resettled, Jack, once again in the middle, a comfortable tangle of limbs.

"Can you stay?" Paul asked quietly. He hoped he didn't sound too eager, or, horrors, too needy. But it would hard, to let go of all this. To sleep alone tonight, after a bed so full of warmth and emotion.

Jack said, and he was petting Paul's arm and ribs again, his hands never still, "Why else do you think we brought coffee? ...You haven't lived until you've tasted this guy's Eggs Benedict, Daniel."

Paul smiled, and squeezed with both hands. He felt more relief than he wanted to admit. When had they both become so dear to him?

Daniel said, laughing, "Watch out, Paul. You know the way to Jack's heart has always been his stomach. You may never get rid of us now."

"I can think of worse fates," Paul said. And if he sounded smug, well, he figured they could take it.

  
end.


End file.
